


Spirited Company

by APgeeksout



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-01
Updated: 2014-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-19 10:46:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2385560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APgeeksout/pseuds/APgeeksout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Home, sweet home.  Somehow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spirited Company

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flipflop_diva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flipflop_diva/gifts).



Maria was absolutely not moving into Stark Tower. As her perfunctory interview wound down, Pepper Potts had told her the apartment was a fringe benefit, an incidental part of the compensation package that accompanied her new position; she shouldn't feel as though she were being given special treatment (or having sneaky strings attached to the work she'd be doing).  Still, Maria had suspected even then (and, had since confirmed with her unrestricted access to personnel files) that none of Stark Industries' high-level executives other than Stark and Potts resided in the Tower.

She'd been distinctly unenthusiastic about the prospect of living in Stark's clubhouse, being around to indulge his fantasies of running the Avengers Initiative like his own private stable of comic book mystery men.

Plus, she wanted more separation than a few flights of stairs between her work space and her living space. She'd never begrudged SHIELD the commitment it required.  The late nights and the unexpected distress calls and the little white lies that formed a brittle crust over all of her personal relationships had been small enough prices to pay for having a concrete role in keeping her world safe, detecting and dispatching threats before most people ever had to learn how dangerous the world could be.  But, there was no more SHIELD (not officially, anyway, though she expected the call from Coulson's people - her people, still, in more ways than not - and knew herself well enough not to pretend that she wouldn't answer when they did), and if that part of her life was changing without her having gotten a say in the matter, she'd decided to change the rest on terms of her own choosing.

Still, apartment-hunting in New York, even on her suddenly massively-expanded budget, took time and energy and patience. Basically, all the resources she'd been lacking in severely since the Helicarriers and Capitol Hill and Providence base and everything that came after. And, so, she'd agreed to take the space SI offered.  "Only," she'd stressed, to Pepper, who'd merely handed her a ring of keys with a serene smile, "until I figure out something more permanent on my own."

Of course, that had been nearly six weeks ago.  She'd still unpacked only her bare day-to-day necessities - items coming out of the neatly-labeled cartons stacked in the second bedroom one at a time, as she used them; toothbrush, towels, and sheets first, photographs and other sentimentalities last and maybe never.  She'd given her new assistant a standing request to bring a list of likely-looking apartment listings with her third cup of coffee each morning.  And yet, she was beginning to have the sinking feeling that she had, in fact, moved in. 

She hadn't decorated, of course, but the place was starting to show signs of occupation, _hominess,_ even: her favorite mug stationed on the counter next to the coffeemaker, the afghan crocheted by one of her aunts folded over one arm of the surprisingly comfortable sofa, the pot of pink and yellow begonia that she'd accepted from Sam Wilson - in town doing recon with Rogers - even as she refused to let him call it a housewarming gift.

The real giveaway, though, was probably the wet-bar.  The various glasses, decanters, and other barware had been provided as part of the standard furnishings; she'd have expected nothing less from the combination of Pepper's attention to detail and Stark's affection for debauchery.  But, the selection of spirits was down to Maria and to the colleagues and friends who'd visited her here.  

Left to her own devices, she primarily drank scotch - ideally "old enough to legally walk into a bar itself if it were human", though on her government salary it had more often been something closer to "old enough to drive" - with a few drops of water.  Doctored the way Peggy Carter had taught her so many years ago, when Maria was young and green and managing her very first op and Agent Carter was (officially, at least) retired, screening material for the Howling Commandos exhibit with curators from the Smithsonian and fielding offers to collaborate on her memoirs.  With her first paycheck from SI, she'd treated herself to a bottle of 21 Year Glenfiddich, which now only a few inches remaining in the bottom. 

Not that she'd put it all to bed herself; Sharon Carter had helped, when she'd stopped in on the New York City vacation that may or may not have been an assignment for Agent 13 from someone who may or may not have been Maria's dead and buried former superior in another organization and another life.  Peggy had been the one to teach her niece how to drink - and how to find and use allies - too.  When they'd raised their glasses with a solemn, "To Agent Carter," it hadn't been just the alcohol that had warmed her.

Next to the scotch, there was a fifth of good bourbon and a little amber bottle of bitters, left behind when May and - the girl... the hacker... the oh-eight-four... "She has a name," Maria scolded herself - _Skye_ came to see her after meeting with Stark and a team of the high-level techies.  Melinda's taken her whiskey neat the entire time they've known each other, but on that night, Skye had mixed them round after round of Old Fashioneds ("Badass specialists aren't the only ones with secret skills, you know," she'd teased, efficiently slicing an orange into neat wheels of garnish.), and May drank every one with an indulgent smile and a loose contentment that Maria did her the courtesy of pretending was only attributable to the cocktails.

Where Wilson had brought her warmly-colored flowers on the occasion of the absolutely-not-a-housewarming visit, Rogers had brought a beautiful blue bottle of gin, though they hadn't had time to open it before Steve had made his apologies - "Dinner reservations, and company I can't stand to keep waiting".  Later, while she and Wilson had been nursing their gimlets and admiring the - admittedly, pretty spectacular - view of the sunset from the wall of windows in the living room, she was sure that she had glimpsed a flash of auburn on the sidewalk below.  A petite redhead disappearing into the crowd on the arm of her broad-shouldered companion.  

She was just beginning to wonder idly if it said something worrying about her that she was realizing things about the state of her life based upon the state of her liquor cabinet when a series of efficient raps sounded at her door.  When she peered through the peephole, it was to find Natasha, brandishing a bottle of vodka and a Spanish-language tabloid, folded open to a grainy photo of - well, Maria couldn't actually tell, though she knew that the list of people that might bring an off-duty Black Widow to her door wasn't a long one.  And most of them lived in this building, too.  

She threw the bolt and opened the door to admit Natasha with a wry smile, "Howdy, neighbor." 


End file.
